


Be The Hero

by xX_AJRfootfetish_Xx



Category: Flop Stoppers (Short Film), Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Bega, Bipolar Disorder, Daddy Issues, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Gay, Gen, Great Depression, Grief, Grief/Mourning, I'M SO SORRY HANK, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, NO EATTE SMANDR, Nazi, Original Character(s), Other, Owen Carvour & The Deadliest Man Alive Are Different People, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Poison, Poisoning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, References to Depression, Soft Boys, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, THE CHILDREN? THEY'RE FUCKING GAY, Time Travel, Torture, Verbal Abuse, World War I, but oleg simps will love me, ehehe poison go ebrbrbrbrbrbr, gay kids, i love you oleg, nooo curt don't almost kiss the dude that looks like your dead boyfriend ahaha you're so sexy, owen carvour simps will HATE me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xX_AJRfootfetish_Xx/pseuds/xX_AJRfootfetish_Xx
Summary: A self-indulgent TCB/Starkid fanfic that uses song lyrics for every chapter title (:Spies Are Forever with a twist.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 54
Kudos: 21





	1. Homesick Has Never Felt So Fucking Swell

_Curt aimed his foot at the bloody Russian's back. Was leaving Oleg alive a bad idea? He pushed the thought from his mind, stepped over the blood on the floor, and went downstairs after Owen. While they worked, Curt couldn't help but worry about the de-kneed Russian a few rooms back. His gut said something was wrong, and as a spy he'd learned to trust his gut._

_"Owen, I've got a bad feeling about that guy we left."_

_"Don't, love. He's probably bled out already."_

_Curt didn't respond. He smiled during their banter, talking of breaking old records while setting the bomb timer for 3 minutes, but that smile left when people started flooding into the room. Owen made a dash for the stairs, Curt following close behind, when a squeak and sudden movement stopped Curt in his tracks. Owen's foot slipped through the blood on the stairs, and he flew over the railing._

Curt jumps awake, stifling the screech that nearly leaves his mouth, the crack from Owen's skull echoing in his head. He takes a deep breath and stares at his shaky hands. He almost thinks he can see blood on them. He stands and stumbles off to the bathroom, a sickness rising and twisting in his stomach.

There are a few pill bottles around his bathroom, ranging from totally empty to almost full, all for different sleeping aids. By now, Curt's tried everything to get his head calmed enough to finally sleep. The only thing that's ever worked is a little extra whiskey in his drinks. His head spins as he washes his face and then stares at the dark brown saucers looking back in his reflection.

He manages to process only his eyes, the rest of his face swirling into itself and flashing colors like a kaleidoscope. His eyes are sad, lonely, empty. The darkness blurred under them would have to be related to his lack of sleep. Eventually, even his eyes disappear with the throbbing shooting through his head. He climbs into his tub and carelessly swings his hand towards one of the knobs, wincing when he makes contact just a little harder than he meant to.

When freezing water sprays out all over him, Curt screeches and frantically springs from the tub, already beginning to shiver. Sobered up and cold, he carefully twists the other knob and waits for the water to turn warm before climbing back in, still dressed. It's not that Curt wants to ruin his clothes, he spent more than he should have on this shirt, he just doesn't care anymore. He's spent the past 4 years blaming himself for his boyfriend's death, why would he stop now?

He's gone through this cycle a million times before. He should have been the one to die. He should have at least jumped down after Owen. He should have tried to get his lover to safety, even if it meant both of them dying. He should have… but he didn't. In the blink of an eye, his water has turned cold. He turns the knobs once more and wanders off to his bedroom, leaving a trail of water and disappointment in his wake.

His bedroom is cold, his bed painfully empty. He hates his bed now, which is shown by him never sleeping in it. Sometimes he can't even stay in this house. Well, it's more of a shack, really, and it's never looked very nice, but once, a long time ago, it felt like home. It hasn't felt like that in years, though.

Sometimes this shack gets so bad that he stays at his mothers, not that she complains. He's never able to get himself to stay with her long, though. The pity, the blind date offers, the questioning of where his friends went, it all quickly becomes too much for him and he packs up as quickly as he can and rushes back to his hut.

He looks at the comics and papers strewn about the floor and desk. Captain Cosmos and Detective Dark stare at him from ink covered pages and old sketches from Harrison himself. Curt used to idolize Harrison, until they met. A slightly younger Mega stared into a pair of brown eyes that mirrored his own, and he was shocked when, instead of a God, he saw only a man.

Hank was the closest Curt got to a father, maybe that's why looking at these comics now fills him with despair. He no longer has his guide, his helping hand. Hank somehow always knew what to say. Curt sits down in bed, not bothering to dry himself or change, and wonders where Hank got his wisdom from. How many of Hank's words had purpose and how many were just pulled from the air on the spot? Curt closes his eyes and lays back, the throbbing in his head causing his thoughts to scatter into nothingness, and drifts once more into the darkness behind his eyelids.


	2. What You Don't Know Can Haunt You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarity: this is a change in POV. this chapter is set in 1957. the POV character is referred to as "he," all other characters, regardless of gender, are referred to as "they."

_He woke up on the cold cement floor, blood, debris, and ash around him. He had to cough up a bit of dust before he sat up._

_"Hello?" His voice echoed. Did he have a Russian accent? Wait- he was speaking Russian. Was he Russian? He must have been, he couldn't remember how to speak any other way._

_"Hello? Is anyone here?" It hurt to speak, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to exist. Without thinking, he started moving to stand, but quickly stopped when pain consumed his legs. They were caked in a dark reddish brown. Did he get **shot**?_

_He looked around for any sign of life, seeing only bodies around him. One body looked vaguely familiar, but his head was so frazzled he couldn't remember where from. He dragged himself over to the corpse, partially buried under rubble, and turned its head towards him. They appeared to be a male, maybe about 40, with a dark brown coat and shirt. There was a name on the tip of his tongue._

_He knew there was an "O" somewhere. Ow? Ol? Oliver? No, definitely not Oliver, but whoever this was was pretty damn dead. He stared a bit longer. Oleg? Yes! He remembers **someone** being named Oleg. That must be this guy. Poor dead Oleg._

_He sat upright, hummed softly, and tapped rhythms into the crumbled concrete around him, bored. He couldn't use his legs very well, and he was pretty sure one of his hands got crushed by rubble because some of his fingers were twisted in weird ways, but the pain from before was somehow easing. He figured that probably wasn't a good thing, but he definitely wasn't going to complain about it._

_He stopped his tune when he heard sounds echo through the large empty warehouse. He saw green-clad figures through the holes in the ceiling. It took him a minute to process that those figures were humans. He wasn't wearing green, instead a tan coat and - wait, what was that on his head? He pulled off a grey cap as a loud bang and the sound of screeching metal filled his ears._

_He tried to direct his eyes towards the noise, but found twisting around to be awkward, and hurt himself a little in the process. More green men were coming down the stairs that lead to the bottom of the large underground warehouse. One of the blurred figures wasn't in green, though, and was instead dressed in darker colors that almost blended in with the walls._

_"H-Help," he croaked out softly. "Help me, please."_

_It wasn't long before soldiers were lifting him up to look into a familiar face. He wasn't sure how he knew it, who the person was, just that the way he was being held was agonizing. He let out a faint whimper at the ache and the antagonizing glare of the man in front of him._

_"H-Hi?" His voice trembled._

_"How fucking ignorant can you be?"_

_"Wh- Excuse m-.." He let himself trail off. The man in front of him spoke almost exactly in his voice._

_"I sent you here specifically to make sure this never happened! What happened, hm? How did you manage to fuck this up?"_

_He stared for a while, unsure how to respond. The other man rolled their eyes and brought a hand to their face._

_"What about the blueprints, shitass?"_

_"Blueprints?"_

_"The nuclear blueprints?!"_

_"I… I don't…"_

_With a wave of their hand, he was dropped to the floor, a yelp forcing itself from his mouth on impact. He curled in on himself, holding his wounded legs. He'd been handling a lot of pain so far, but this was horrible._

_"I-I'm sorry. I can't remember- I don't- I don't know anything-"_

_"How do you not remember anything?!"_

_"How should I know if I can't remember anything?"_

_This immediately earned a boot in his face. He looked at the warming sky through the broken ceiling, nose leaking._

_"Козёл."_

_It wasn't long before he was being hauled out of and away from the crumbled warehouse in a dirty truck. They threw him into the bed of the truck, leaving him cold and uncomfortable, before starting the engine and driving off. He clutched his cap tightly in his uninjured hand, occasionally wiped his nose, and stared at the mix of colors brought on by the setting sun just beyond the horizon._


	3. Forgive Me That I Live And You Are Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're going back to 1961 one now.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING:
> 
> This chapter contains graphic descriptions of blood as well as depicts possibly triggering content such as depression, PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), bipolar depression, suicide, self-harm, and other disturbing content. Read with caution.
> 
> Please make sure to tell me if you feel there are any other triggers or warnings I should add. Thank you.

Hank Harrison had a son, despite no longer having a wife and never even impregnating a woman. Hank _had_ a wife, but he lost her pretty quickly. A lot of people never made it through the Great Depression, and she was one of them. When he first met Curt, his life, like many others, seemed hopeless.

Despair was a shared trait among the two men, as well as running away in comics. The only noticeable difference between them two was about 15 years, Hank being 36 when he met the freshly turned 20-year-old Mega at a book signing, and the hair on Hank's jaw. When the two met, they were no longer an author and his fan. They both felt something, something beyond their shared face, that tied them together.

It didn't take long before they started calling that something "destiny." They met when they needed each other badly, both ready to give up, and Hank was quickly accepted into the Mega family, him accepting the Megas back just as fast. Many nights were spent eating dinner together, Moma Mega throwing playful flirts Hank's way, much to Curt's distress. They had an understanding that there wasn't any sort of interest, their relationship being entirely platonic, and that there was teasing purely for the purpose of driving young Curtis up the wall.

Hank sometimes wondered what would've happened if he hadn't met Curt, if he never got his family in time. Hank was in a bad place after his wife left. For the first time, he couldn't escape his pains by diving into one of his fictional worlds. Hank's emotions always seemed somehow off for most of his life. Sometimes he would be happy or sad when he shouldn't be, or just numb, but he was always able to fight it off with a story. After losing his wife, he was stuck in a rut he couldn't seem to dig himself out of.

The darkest comics of Hank's life came from this rut. The gritty, evil, bad-guy-always-wins sort of stories. A new species of Detective Dark that was often complimented and praised. These comics, however, were the ones Hank hated the most, for several reasons. He despised the joy people derived from his suffering, seeing too much of himself in the inked pages of torment, but he also hated the needless pain he put his characters through. There was no rhyme or reason, just agony.

When the conversation started, Hank felt pure dread. Curt, out of the blue, asked him something simple. **Why?** Hank took a moment to sit, and stare, and ache before answering with something as short as he could manage. **He was hurting.** Curt was silent for a bit before nodding and admitting he never liked the series as much as the other lighthearted ones, but he couldn't argue with pain. Hank stopped dreading Curt's questions after that.

Hank now stares at an old photograph, framed in an intricate silver carving, that he often avoids. He hates this room, but he forces himself into it once a year to clean and rearrange. He'd been avoiding it this year, but something finally lured him in. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the smoke that stopped running properly up the fireplace, maybe it was the rotted rope that was dropped outside of his window as a cruel joke from an even more cruel world. Whatever the trigger was, he's here now.

The picture he's caught staring at is one of his wife, long blonde hair curled and laying free, tight pink floral dress clinging to her petite frame. He can barely recognize her in this picture anymore. She doesn't look like her without blood smeared on her arms or bruises wrapped around her pretty neck. Hank takes a moment to sit down and breathe. Yes, Hank has been lucky to get a new family, but no amount of new people, or feelings, or distractions can ever really erase the memories he has deep in his head. He can push them back and lock them away in the depths of his mind, but they always creep out eventually.

He came in here to clean, to rearrange, his wife never could stand things staying the same for too long, but now he sits on an old creaky bed, dressed with white silk flowers, tinted by decades of age. The bed's moaning conjures up the sound of a rope, the rain casts dim spots of light on her newly reddened dress, the smoke mixes with the metallic scent of blood and death. He wants to leave, but he's frozen again, eyes fixed on the crimson puddle on the floor. He can no longer feel anything in him break and die, because it's already dead. **She's already dead** , he reminds himself gently, **he just needs to breathe**.

A long time ago, Hank searched for a cause for his issues, a name for his symptoms. The closest he ever came was "shell-shock," which he would never claim to have because he wasn't a soldier. Eventually, he gave up and just decided that he was weak. He still believes that now, and that is another thing he reminds himself of. **He is weak, and he has to get stronger** , so Hank gets up off the bed and forces himself around the room anyway, tears streaming down his face. Trembling, he cleans the room up, accidentally putting extra attention into scrubbing the already clean floor, moves the furniture a bit, and shuffles off to fall into bed.

He stares at the ceiling long enough for his eyes to stick open, then rolls onto his side and studies the ghoulish figure in bed next him. He examines her bright blonde hair, her hazel eyes, brushes his thumb over her pale, warm cheek. She smiles softly and wipes a tear from his cheek that he wasn't aware was there. It's then that he realizes he can barely breathe. The lady disappears, a long noose left in her place, stretching out to wrap around his neck.

It takes minutes of choking and sobbing before he finally passes out.


	4. Two Of A Kind With A Past Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place in 1929 (:
> 
> Trigger Warning:  
> Mentions of murder, blood, death, and injury.

_Edmund was born to a poor family in East London. He learned very early on that if he wanted something, he'd have to work extremely hard for it. When he was just 5 years old, he used left over metal scraps from his uncle's work to make blades. As he grew, he started to steal to support his family. He ran away when he was 13._

_The first time Edmund ever took a life, he was scared. A robbery gone wrong painted him into a corner, forcing him to choose between taking a life or going to jail. He chose the former. However, his fear was quickly replaced with excitement. For the first time in his short life, he felt strong. He was able to change something big, something major, and he liked how that new power tasted._

_Using money stolen from unsuspecting civilians and looted from those he put in the ground, he bought a boat ride to Belgium and fled into West Germany. Edmund had freshly turned 15 when he found a rundown cabin in the mountains. He had just set up his torn bedding when a young boy entered carrying firewood. Both boys stared at each other a long while, startled, before either spoke._

_"Warum bist du in meinem Haus?" the German asked quietly._

_"What?"_

_"Why are you in my house?" he repeated, this time in English._

_"Your house? This is hardly a shack, let alone a house."_

_They stared longer before the stranger picked up his firewood and closed the door._

_"You're not from around here, are you?"_

_"Nah. You live alone?"_

_"I do," the boy paused before looking back to Edmund, eyes fixed more on his knife than him. "Are you going to kill me?"_

_"Should I?"_

_Once again, a silence fell._

_"I don't have much else I can do," he sat. "Who are you?"_

_"Who are you?"_

_"It's my shack."_

_Edmund hummed softly in thought, examining his lap and thinking of how he must seem. He was dirty, bloody, probably stank more than he could tell, and he was carrying around a shabby bag with obviously stolen items and homemade blades. He wasn't very inconspicuous, and he was probably pretty frightening, yet the boy sitting just a few feet from him seemed rather calm, although obviously still afraid._

_"Edmund."_

_"Nice to meet you, Edmund," the kid grinned and shoved out his hand. "My name is Baron."_

_Edmund studied Baron's hand, now noticing the bandages wrapped around his arms under his torn sweater. They were bloodstained and dirty and obviously hadn't been changed in awhile. He could also see a few scars on the smaller boy's hand, and was now examining the poor child more closely. Baron retracted his hand._

_"Not one for shaking?"_

_There were more bloodstains on his clothes, particularly around the sleeves and neck, but a few dotted on his torso as well. A raised scar wobbled horizontally around his thin neck, alongside some sort of necklace Edmund didn't recognize. There were several black splatters painted on the rotting wood floor. Baron shifted uncomfortably at the silence and awkwardly moved to put more wood in the barely standing rock fireplace. A mostly full bottle of whiskey sat with more bandages, which didn't look entirely sanitary, in a corner next to an old worn couch._

_"Did you fight a bear or something?"_

_"What?" Baron jumped slightly and twirled around to face his senior. "No, no bear fights."_

_"Wolf?"_

_"No?"_

_"Person?"_

_"I haven't fought anything."_

_"Then what the hell did you do to yourself?"_

_"Wh- I…" He winced softly and turned back to the fireplace. "None of your business."_

_"You fall down a hill or something dumb?"_

_He earned no response, but he didn't really need one. Closing much of the distance between them, Edmund gently moved Baron to look at the tag on his neck. The smaller boy whimpered softly and tensed, but did nothing more._

_"What is this?"_

_"A-A dog tag. Soldiers wear them so their bodies can be identified."_

_"A.. Abiewood?" Edmund furrowed his brows at the letters pressed into the tag. He looked up to the brown eyes in front of him._

_"Adalwolf," Baron smiled, relaxing. "You can't read, can you?"_

_"Who's that?" he huffed, promptly ignoring the question._

_"He was my dad."_

_They both gazed at each other for a long bit before the larger crawled back to his "bed."_

_"Sorry for your loss," he muttered, climbing under his ripped blanket. He shot up when he felt another body close to his. "What the hell are you doing?"_

_"It's cold, stupid."_

_"So? Go be cold in your own space."_

_"You were just in my space!"_

_"At least I wasn't spooning you!"_

_"I wasn't spooning you!"_

_"Whatever! Go away."_

_"Fine, but when you're freezing then you better keep your mouth shut and just freeze over there," he huffed, plopping back down by the fire._

_"Excuse me?"_

_"You heard me."_

_"You've got quite the attitude for someone so small."_

_"Piss off and go to sleep, murderer."_

_Edmund stared for a very long time before laying back down. Surely enough, though, as time went on he found more and more cold creeping into his bones. He shifted silently to peek at Baron, who was huddled up in an oversized coat by the fire. He didn't want to admit it, but Baron was right. He hesitantly scooched over and took a place by the German._

_"Told ya so."_

_"Shut it. Where'd you learn English?"_

_"We were supposed to move when the Great War started, but we never got a chance."_

_They let things fall still, the only noises coming from the fire and the wind outside. Edmund wrapped an arm around his junior without even a glance. Baron let out a faint squeak as he was pulled into the other's shivering embrace. Nestled closely together by the fire, they found enough warmth to make it through the night comfortably, Baron falling asleep first. After long enough spent with the kid in his arms, watching the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, Edmund fell asleep too._


	5. It Hasn't Been My Day For A Couple Years

Curt drives down the road in silence, still wondering if he's made the right decision. He got in touch with Cynthia earlier today about becoming a spy again, which got him an earful of insults and curses before he received a mission. No easing back in, just straight to it. He loves Cynthia, or maybe "respects" or "fears" would be better words, but he can't help but worry about him getting back so deep in the game this quickly.

He was told briefly about an informant through the verbal abuse, which, from what he could gather, would be easy to find. Just say the code and he'll get what he needs. He lets out a deep sigh, eyes on the road, but not totally paying attention. Cynthia is shipping him off to Budapest, which has only just been rebuilt from the smothered revolution a few years back. The Soviets spared no expense in crushing desperate civilians.

Curt isn't on his way towards Budapest, though, not right now. He's speeding off to go visit his father, Hank. He considered seeing his mother, but decided against it. He isn't strong enough to face his mother, not yet, so he drives on a shitty dirt road, well over the speed limit and unable to care. Although, that changes pretty quick when two men appear on the road in front of him, causing him to force his car to a screeching halt.

"Graham?!"

Curt jumps out of the car and immediately freezes at the sight in front of him. He recognizes both of the faces in front of him, one significantly better than the other.

"O-Owen?" he whispers, starting to feel dizzy. He presses his fingers to his eyes before looking back.

"Graham, are you alright?" Owen asks the second man, who'd fallen on the road, leg clipped by the car.

"Shit, I-I'm so sorry! I wasn't paying attention," Curt rushes over, immediately examining the poor man's leg.

"It's alright, we- wait, Hank?" Owen trails off. It's then that Curt notices the gun and strange circular device the two had been keeping with them.

"Owen, what is that?"

"What?" he rushes to collect the dropped items. "No, Hank, it's Spencer, remember?"

"Very funny. I thought you died," Curt stares, but the confusion on the man's face makes it obvious that he is  not, in fact, Owen. "You.. I'm sorry, you look like… Wait, Hank?"

"Spencer," the injured man, **Graham,** whimpers through his pain. Not-Owen is by his side immediately. "Holy shit, Hank Harrison?"

"Mr. Harrison, can you take us to a hospital?"

"W- I- I'm not Hank Harrison, my name is Curt, and the nearest hospital is miles back," Curt looks to Graham, who lets out another pained huff, and then carefully scoops him up. "The  actual Hank lives nearby, he has stuff."

"Oh, sorry. W-Wherever we can get help."

Curt nods, stands with a small grunt, and carries Graham to his car, gently laying him in the small space in the back. He gestures for the other to get in the passenger side door before hopping back into the driver's seat.

"Thank you."

"I just hit your friend, don't thank me."

"It's my fault…"

Curt glances to the right quickly before training his eyes back on the road.

"What are your names?"

"Oh! I'm Spencer, that's Graham.. Uh, you were calling me Owen earlier?"

"My… partner. From work. You look kinda like him." Curt can't get any other words out, but doesn't really want to.

"Right," Spencer glances over his shoulder to his friend behind him. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Curt doesn't respond. The rest of the drive is spent mostly just listening to the ragged breathing from Graham in the back, sometimes interrupted by Spencer asking _"How much longer?"_ or _"Are you sure he'll be okay?"_ Curt hasn't talked to anyone unfamiliar with the spy business in a long time. Even Hank and his mother have become used to the constant hazard of his life, so the innocence of the questions, the  fear, it sounds weird in Curt's ears. He has to force himself past the surprise each time a new one is spoken. He isn't sure when, but at some point he forgot that getting injured wasn't a normal everyday occurrence.

When they finally arrive, Curt notices Spencer hesitate slightly before exiting the car. He moves around to grab a trembling Graham, who desperately clutches onto his shirt. It's only then that he sees the blood on the young man's leg as well as on his car seat. A small twinge of fear strikes his chest.

"I'm sorry," Graham whimpers.

Curt looks to the shaking mess in his arms and quickens his pace, practically kicking the car door closed and zooming up the front steps to Hank's door. Spencer knocks before he can. It doesn't take long before Hank opens the door, his smile quickly turning to shock.

"Curtis?"

"I hit him," Curt responds blankly.

Hank stares, mostly at Spencer, Graham's face being too pressed into Curt's chest to see. Spencer and Hank share a dumbstruck face, mouths slightly agape and eyes wide with confusion. Curt felt the person in his arms wriggle softly to look.

"Holy shit, Hank Harrison?" he whispers in hemorrhage-induced awe. "Man, we just saw you!"

"Mr. Harrison," Spencer holds up a hand to his friend. "I'm sorry to impose on you further, but-"

"Come in," Hank interrupts. "Second room on the right, Curtis."

Curt nods and speeds past Hank, Spencer in tow, jumping in to open the door. Curt is very familiar with this room, it's where he sleeps when he stays the night. There are still a few spots on the bedding that Hank gave up trying to clean ages ago. Curt tenderly lays Graham on the bed, nodding his head again at the soft "thank you" he receives. He turns just in time to watch Hank enter with a bag he knows all too well. This whole situation is quite familiar to Curtis, but normally he was the one injured.

He takes a step back and gestures for Spencer to do the same, allowing Hank to work his magic. After countless missions completed with some sort of injury too embarrassing to take to Mama Mega, not to mention Curt's impossible fear of blood, Hank has learned how to treat wounds pretty well, although Ms. Mega is still better than he is.

Curt steps out of the room, the blood and Spencer's face starting to bring on some sort of anxiety attack. He shakily reaches into his pocket for his flask, chugging it down as fast as possible, before closing his eyes and trying to force himself to forget. He doesn't want to forget, though, not really. He doesn't want to forget Owen's lips, or how soft his skin was, or how his hair felt through Curt's fingers. He doesn't want to forget the times they almost got found out, the only times he truly felt fear in his life. He doesn't deserve to forget that it's his fault it's over.

Shaking, Curt slides down the wall and sits for a while. The alcohol didn't do the trick, but it never does, not really. It just makes it easier for him to cry. He isn't totally aware of the tears on his cheeks, or the door next to him opening. When a hand touches his shoulder, it doesn't feel real, so he ignores it. It's not until he's being held that it fully hits him. This is real, this isn't a nightmare. He's breaking down on his father's hardwood floor in the arms of someone who looks just like his dead boyfriend.

He wants to, but he can't find it in himself to pull away. Spencer is warm, soft, and Curt can even hear his heart beating, the way they're situated. It's enough to make his own heart stutter. Being this close, it's bittersweet really, but Curt tries to push away the bitterness. He's had 4 years now of bitter.

"Curt, right? Everything's gonna be okay, Curt."

The softness in Spencer's voice feels like a hit to the chest. Curt carefully looks up to the other man's face, his own burning, and whimpers softly. Without thinking about it, he moves closer, causing Spencer to gently push him back in surprise.

"Oh, uh, sorry, but I'm not.."

"No! I-I didn't- I mean- I'm not," Curt feels fear overtake him again. "I'm sorry, I swear I didn't mean-"

"Curt, it's okay," Spencer smiles. "I just don't hook up with people when they're upset. It's kinda a safety measure."

Curt stares. **That didn't seem like a homophobic response.**

"Plus I'm a guy, right? I-I mean, dudes don't hook up," Curt laughs nervously and looks to the side. "Cause that'd be pretty gay, and I'm not… Gay, I mean. I'm not gay. Not that I think there's anything wrong with being gay, being gay is cool, but it's not my thing. My thing being, uh, women, and not men." Curt and Spencer stare at each other. "If you're gay that's cool, I don't mind. I mean, like, i-if you wanted to hit on me or something…"

"Curt, man, are you okay?"

Curt laughs more and keeps his eyes on the wooden floor. **He fucked that up big time.** The door nearby creaks open and Hank peeks out at them.

"Everything alright?"

"YEAH," Curt immediately yelps.

"Right…" Hank and Spencer make direct eye contact. "Well, your friend is patched up, he needs to rest a bit."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Harrison. Really, you've been so kind to us today, with the song and now this-"

"Song?"

"The song?" Spencer sings, "Ya gotta be the hero."

"R-Right," Hank smiles awkwardly. "Of course, how could I forget? Our last conversation… 20 years ago… that I definitely sang. Anyway," Hank clears his throat. "I need to put this away. Curtis, if you need to, you know where to go," Hank's look softens and he walks away into another part of the house.

"So," Spencer looks to Curt. "You're gay?"

"Y-Yeah," Curt whispers.

"Cool. I'm pansexual."

"You," Curt's eyes widen. "You fuck pans? Like frying pans? You have sex with metal cooking pans?"

Spencer bursts out laughing.

"No, God no, it means I can like anyone, no matter what gender they are or aren't. Ya know? Whether they're a guy, a girl, or something else."

"Wait… There are more than one genders?" Curt panics, Spencer practically crying laughing. "I-I meant to say two, I swear. I," Curt hides his face in his hands.

"It's okay," Spencer giggles. "Hey, this is a kinda odd question, but what year is it?"

"Huh? 1961. Did I hit you too?"

"Nono, I'm fine, but we do have a problem." Spencer pulls the circle device from his bag.

"Right, that thing. What is it?" Curt's tone immediately sobers.

"Would you believe me if I told you that Graham and I are time travelers?"

"Time travelers?" Curt chuckles. "No, rocket shoes are real, but time travelers? That's just some science fiction bullshit. Everyone knows time isn't real."

"No, really. That's why we appeared so suddenly in front of you. But our time machine is broken, plus Graham's hurt. I don't know how we're gonna get back."

Curt thinks a moment.

"I might know someone who can help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long chapter. breaking it up would've screwed with the flow too much, so... thicc chapter.


	6. Electrify My Heart

_The truck ride was long and uncomfortable. The vehicle's bumping which might otherwise ease him, caused him to whimper out in pain. He tried to sleep, but gave up quickly and just gave in to the ache in his bones. His toes tingled softly, his whole body tingled really, but he couldn't tell if that was good or not. He couldn't walk, could barely move, and it kinda felt like his back was broken, so maybe not. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt._

_The sun had set not too long ago, and they were still driving. He was freezing. He forced his head to turn just a little to look through the truck's window, but he couldn't see much through the tint and the darkness. He wished they would stop. He was thirsty._

_He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he must have. He woke up in a dark room, arms fastened behind him, the man from earlier once again nearby. They looked annoyed upon him waking. He felt like his skull was splitting. It took a moment to realize that the broken up wheezing in the room was coming from himself._

_"What do you remember?"_

_The harsh tone of the words stabbed into head, dripping venom onto his already achey brain. More Russian. He didn't even remember learning Russian. Trying to remember much just made his head worse, and he was already dizzy from the pain. All he knew was that someone was dead and that he didn't trust anyone here._

_He struggled to get out a small "nothing." He wasn't about to tell anything to these people. The apparent boss nodded to someone outside of his view, and his vision went black, white lights flashing on and off all around. He felt tense, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. A loud crackling screamed through his head._

_Then, it was gone. His vision returned, though his head felt more foggy than ever. The pain slowly started slinking through him again, this time joined by a soft burning sensation through his torso. He tasted metal in his mouth. His heart felt like a fish in his chest. God, he was so damn thirsty._

_"You remember nothing?"_

_He shook his head softly. The other person sighed._

_"I'll explain for you. You had a partner, the both of you were supposed to be working for me. I found out recently about a British Spy, however. Tell me, are you a Brit or are you simply inept?"_

_His heart was starting to calm down, but it still ached. All he could say was that he didn't know._

_"Do you know the name Owen Carvour?"_

_His heart wasn't calm anymore. He did know that name. He thought that was his name. He managed to cough out a small "no." He could barely breathe through his affliction. Something felt wrong with his heart, like it was running on a clockwork mechanism. Once the tension was gone, his gears would stop spinning._

_"Please." The voice didn't sound like his own. It sounded dry, desperate, scared. "W-Water."_

_His boss gave a low chuckle and made a gesture he couldn't quite see through the blurry haze and light still burned into his vision._

_"You really remember nothing?"_

_"N-Nothing," he rasped._

_"Then I'm going to give you one chance. Understood?"_

_He tried to confirm, but a coughing fit found its way out instead. Coughing hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. The fist meeting his cheek probably should have hurt, but it just made his head turn uncomfortably._

_"Understood?!"_

_"Y-Yes."_

_"Good. Your name is Owen Carvour, you're a British spy. We're going to drop you, you'll be picked up by the Brits, and you'll dig up as much information that you can. We'll collect you later to retrieve the information. Got it?"_

_"Owen… Get information on British security?"_

_"Excellent."_

_The blur moved and suddenly his head was being tilted back. A hand opened his jaw and poured warm water into his mouth, which he drank as best he could through the coughing and choking. Water dribbled down his chin as he tried to catch his breath, but he still forced a sign of gratefulness. After a bit more water poured mostly onto his face and chest rather than into his mouth, he watched the boss's blurry movement._

_He heard the hit rather than felt it, the crack being practically deafening in his ears. He blinked and his surroundings changed. That's when the pain from being hit really set in. He was in a forest, moonlight peeking through the trees. It felt like he had paint on his face._

_He sat up, then confusedly looked at the trees and bushes around. They moved, but no sound came from them, or from anywhere else for that matter. He couldn't hear the wind, the leaves rustling, his own breathing. He moved his hands to his ears. Something was caked on, as well as in, both of them. He prayed to everything holy that he was not permanently deaf now. He already couldn't walk, he didn't need to cross his hearing off as well._

_He was pretty sure he screamed when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't hear to be sure. He did, however, twist as best he could in his injured state. The woman looked serious, but also relieved. He saw her lips move, but couldn't hear her words. He tried to tell her he couldn't hear her, but he wasn't sure if the noises came out properly._

_She frowned and turned his head to look at his ears, then a look of anger covered her face. For the first time in his memory, though, it didn't feel directed towards him. She gestured for him to get up, but he just looked to his legs instead. His clothes were changed at some point. His new pants didn't have tears or holes all in them to show the ruined limbs underneath._

_She gently pulled up his pant leg and her eyes widened, shock evident on her features. She looked like she might start attacking the nearest tree if she got angrier. Rage had started to feel normal, but still scary, and he was glad that hers didn't seem to be aimed at him. God help the poor bastards she was pissed at, though._

_She said something at her watch and gently touched his cheek. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word, but he still couldn't understand. He felt worthless, stupid, ashamed, but she seemed mad enough already, and he couldn't bring himself to admit any incompetence, so he smiled and nodded. He still felt thirsty._

_She sat down by him. Her eyes were green, and curly blonde hair framed her freckled face. She seemed tired, but so did everyone else he met. Everyone was tired, sad, and angry. He wondered why. Despite everything, he didn't feel too miserable, emotionally at least, so why did everyone else seem to?_

_Eventually she pulled a knife and water canteen from a bag she was carrying, and he felt himself whimper. Despite him scooching back, she continued on, grabbing part of his shirt and then cutting it off. She gestured to her own shirt, which had several stains of unknown origin, and put the knife away. He eyed the canteen as she wet the strip of fabric she'd taken. He felt another pained noise escape his chest watching the liquid, but just looked down._

_She pressed the wet strip against his ear and he yelped slightly. The blonde put a finger over her lips to hush him and kept wiping, handing him the canteen as well. A mix of relief, joy, and thankfulness filled his chest as he eagerly downed the liquid inside. He attempted to thank her, but fell silent, realizing his words probably wouldn't come out properly anyway._

_When she was done cleaning his ears, she carefully took his injured hand. Although it hurt like hell, he let her set his fingers back into place as well. They tingled softly. Even through the pain, though, he felt fond of this woman. He enjoyed being helped, rather than beat, even if her anger still spooked him. It was comforting to know that the anger at least wasn't because of him._

_The next hour or so passed quite calmly, the smallest bit of Owen's hearing even returning. He learned that the woman's name was Zoey and she was a mercenary. She owed MI6 a favor, which was why she was here with him._

_"We have to wait for an agent to pick you up," she spoke right next to his ear so he could hear. "I can't take you back because I'm 'not allowed to enter London.' Load of crap, but I don't wanna tango with the British Government right now."_

_"Right," he nodded, slightly scared. Whatever she did to get banned from the entirety of London, he wasn't about to ask._

_As his hearing slowly returned, Owen spoke more, explaining his legs as well as describing the pain his heart had been in, which led to more examination of him. She found a lighting shaped burn across his back and spoke that to her watch as well, which she informed him was a communication device to speak to the inbound agent. By the time the agent arrived, she'd bandaged Owen's back as best she could. He didn't get a chance to say goodbye, though, as he was nearly immediately hauled off, leaving Zoey alone in the woods._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another lonk chapter. sorry. anyway meet my OC zoey lol.


	7. Everything Stays

Graham wakes up to his hand being held. Pain reverberates through his leg, but it isn't the worst thing he's ever felt. **At least,** he thinks, **it's just the skin that hurts and not too much deeper.** Spencer smiles at Graham's open eyes, and Hank- Curt?- stands by the door, arms crossed. They both seem exhausted.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." Spencer's voice is soft, sweet, as always.

"Where are we?"

"Hank Harrison's house!"

"Woah, really? That's so cool!" Graham tries to sit up, but is quickly pushed back down.

"You should just rest for now. Okay, Candy Graham?"

"I told you not to call me that."

"Why? It's cute."

"It's dumb!"

"And cute!"

"Whatever," Graham rolls his eyes, but he doesn't bother fighting off the smile on his lips. He nods towards the man at the door. "Which one is that?"

"My name is Curt," he says, stepping forward. "Curt Mega."

Graham's eyes widen. He knows this man very well. Of course he does, everyone knows Curt Mega.

"C-Curt Mega? Like, the Curt Mega?"

"You've heard of me?"

"Yeah, everyone's heard of you, dude! You shot JFK-"

Graham's mouth is covered, but it's too late. Curt stares, mouth slightly agape.

"I what?"

"It's nothing, Curt," Spencer frantically says.

"I shoot the president?" Curt looks betrayed, almost. Frightened and betrayed.

"No-"

"I'm gonna shoot the president?! I'm gonna shoot John Fucking Kennedy?!"

Graham watches Spencer shoot a glare his way before getting up to go comfort Curt. He feels confused, but also sick. **It must be before 1963,** he figures.

Spencer takes Curt out of the room, leaving Graham with a lonely, nauseous feeling in his gut. He wants to vomit, but he doesn't think he can. **He hasn't eaten in awhile.** On that thought, he pauses. **When was the last time he ate? Does it even matter? Does the time travel mean he doesn't need to?** Now that his head's here, he also realizes that it's been awhile since he used the bathroom.

He slips out of bed, avoiding putting weight in his injured leg, and hobbles off towards the door. He peeks outside before leaving. Walking down the long hallway towards the stairs, Graham notices a few cracks and dents in the walls and floor. There are spots where it looks like someone attacked the wall and desperately attempted to fix it, as well as a few deep scratches in the floor that weren't even slightly fixed. It's unsettling, to say the least. He can't help but wonder why Hank never got anything professionally fixed.

Graham turns and painfully makes his way up the stairs. There are a few pictures on the wall of Hank, or maybe Curt, with a pretty blonde. Whichever man is in the pictures, he's beaming. The happiness in the picture makes Graham smile, and he continues up the steps.

Upstairs is darker, more messy. It feels much less lived in than the rest of the house. More pictures with the lady are up here, but several of them have fallen off the walls or been laid face down. Upstairs isn't as injured as the lower floor, but it feels abandoned almost. He feels like he's trespassing, which causes him to hesitate before deciding to continue.

He stumbles off and opens the first door he sees. He smells bleach and other cleaners before he really processes anything he sees. The floors are scratched from moved furniture, there's a large spot that's been scrubbed and scrubbed so much that it's turned a noticeably brighter color than the rest of the hardwood in the dark. White floral bedding is draped on the mattress. Elegantly carved furniture sits in the room. A full length mirror sits in a corner. He almost thinks he can see the blonde reflected in it, but he blinks and she disappears.

He quickly closes the door. He doesn't like this floor, and he especially doesn't like that room. He can barely walk on his own, he isn't about to fuck with any ghosts. **Not today, Satan.**

Graham makes his way back downstairs, slower this time, afraid of falling. When he rounds the bottom, he nearly limps right into who he assumes must be Hank, since this man is visibly older than the other one, but not much. Their face seemed to age quite gracefully. A few wrinkles went into the man's skin, and he'd probably seem pretty young if he didn't ooze sadness and exhaustion.

"What are you doing wandering around?" He doesn't sound mad, surprisingly, just concerned and a little confused.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I just wanted to look around. I shouldn't have-"

"No, no. It's alright," he smiles softly. "You really should be resting, though. Walking around just yet isn't good for your leg, you might tear the stitches. Come."

Hank swiftly wraps Graham's arm around his shoulders. Not that he'd admit it, but Graham is relieved to have someone to lean on. His leg is starting to hurt more than he expected, but shifting his weight helps ease it quite a bit. With Hank's assistance, he's led to bed and tucked back in, sleep chasing quickly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the original name for this chapter was "fuck"


	8. Suddenly, You're All I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA GAYYYYY

_When Baron woke up, Edmund was still asleep. The dirty blonde looked like an angel in his sleep. The kind of beauty you would happily die to protect. He gently brushed a little hair from his angel's face. **His angel.**_

_He carefully slipped from Edmund's arms, surprised at how deep in sleep the boy was. His pretty face, soft features, and quiet breaths were almost enough to quicken Baron's heart. Almost, but not quite._

_He took one of Edmund's longer blades, grabbed his water jug, tugged his coat closer to him, and went outside. It was cold, it was always cold, and the sun was barely visible, but it seemed brighter. Something in Baron's gut told him that things were changing. He was on his path to happiness, now, and the teen in the shack behind him would help. They were destined for great things. He took a deep breath and smiled._

_He'd caught a glimpse of Edmund's bag the night before. There wasn't much food in it. He wondered how Edmund managed to get so big when he probably barely ate. **What was Edmund's plan, anyway? He wasn't going to find much food out here that he could steal.**_

_Baron sighed and started walking. He knew that Edmund wouldn't be sharing anything. Even when he had someone else, he always had to fend for himself. The pain in his chest was quickly pushed aside when he reached one of the small streams that flowed through the mountains. He filled up his water jug and tried to spot any animals._

_A shadow, practically minuscule in size, shifted to his side. He took a deep breath, staying as still as he could, and looked over. A fat salamander, black and bright yellow, sat by the water. He took another breath and tried to steady himself._

_In a swift movement, the blade he'd borrowed cut into the amphibian, but it wasn't aimed well enough to kill. A string of fluid shot at him, narrowly avoiding his eyes and mouth, landing just on his cheek. He dived at the small animal, managing to grab it and cut off its head._

_Baron washed the blade off in the stream, slid it through his belt, and grabbed his water jug in one hand, salamander body in the other. He'd never had such a quick food trip before. Normally, he'd have to search for plants or berries. It was rare to find an animal, even rarer to have the equipment to kill it. He smiled. He could get used to this luxury._

_When he got back to the shack, his cheek had started tingling and Edmund was awake. Baron returned the blade, but its owner didn't look interested when he saw the salamander body in Baron's hand. The dead animal was immediately taken from him and thrown outside._

_"What the hell?" Baron shouted._

_"Did it spray you?"_

_"What?"_

_"They're poisonous, Baron," Edmund grabbed his shoulders. "Did it spray you?!"_

_Baron's hand went to his cheek, and Edmund immediately dug through his bag to produce a torn cloth and water. The wet cloth was roughly rubbed on his cheek, then neck, and just face in general._

_"It didn't get me there."_

_"Better safe than sorry."_

_"It's just some tingling, it's not that bad."_

_"You're lucky it didn't get in your eye or in your mouth!"_

_Edmund actually looked concerned. Baron felt his face heat up, but told himself it was just from the rag. **Edmund was too aggressive, was all.**_

_"Watch out, you're starting to seem like you care," Baron teased, unable to hold back the smile on his face. His heart was pounding._

_"Is there some reason I shouldn't?"_

_His heart screamed in his ears. His body felt hot, on fire. He felt like he was burning alive. **Was this the poison?** He stepped forward and leaned against the dirty blonde, pressing his face against the former's shoulder._

_"Baron?" Edmund's hands were on his sides immediately and he squeaked. "Let's sit you down, alright?"_

_"No! Don't move… just stay like this. Please." He could feel Edmund's heart racing, or maybe it was his own. His brain was foggy, and all he could think about was being held. Held by his angel._

_Edmund moved his arms around Baron entirely, helping the burning child stay standing. Baron's grip on Edmund's shirt tightened, but eventually fell loose as his vision faded out. He could hear Edmund saying his name, panicked, then everything went silent._


	9. A Hero Who Must Be Bold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curtis is learning what it means to be a hero.

Something Curt has realized recently is just how badly he needed to not be alone. Traveling with Spencer and Graham the past day or two, although practically traumatic, is refreshing. He finds comfort in their kindness, their understanding, but part of him feels ashamed.  **The infamous Curt Mega, one of – no –** **the** **greatest spy in the world, shouldn't need help.** At least he keeps telling himself that, but time and time again he finds himself stuck in his own incompetence.

He sighs and looks in the rearview mirror, adjusting it to see Graham. He still feels horrible about the kid's leg.  **He should have stopped faster. That poor guy should be home by now. If he wasn't so damn inept-** Graham's eyes make contact with his through the mirror, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Don't you get tired?" Graham whispers.

"Sometimes. Just gotta push through it. I have more important things to worry about," Curt whispers back.

"Hey, look, that thing about JFK-"

"Don't worry about it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. At least I'm caught at some point."

"I guess."

Silence falls back over the car. Graham sits himself up, guilt stabbing Curt in the gut with each mewl. He's starting to think that he should give up on being a spy, that he shouldn't go back, that he should tell Cynthia to find someone else for this just.  **He can't even drive properly. If he hadn't been speeding then he could have stopped in time.**

Headlights shine through the car from the back window. Curt readjusts the mirror, but sees nothing but the lights getting closer and brighter. He quickly glances over his shoulder, annoyance and slight panic settling behind his ribs. It's not long before the lights are just a foot or two from their back bumper.

"What the hell?"

"Asshole," Graham mutters and waves at the stranger. "Just go around!"

"What's going on?" Spencer groans.

"Oh, just some prick riding our ass."

Curt presses down on the gas. The car behind them starts to grow further when his car radio goes off. A familiar voice sounds through the vehicle.

_ "Stop the car, Curtis." _

Fear jolts through Curt's heart and he jumps, his foot raising off the gas pedal. There's the sound of metal screeching on metal, lights exploding in his eyes, then they're spinning. When the world finally goes still, Curt is upside down. Blood is on the roof of the car, running like a crimson river. He can hear it dripping.

Smoke fills the car, as well as his lungs, and he holds his breath. He has to get out of the car. He yanks at his seatbelt until it breaks open, his head slamming down into the roof,  **into the blood.** He places his hands at his head and pushes himself up, shifting the weight from his head so he can look around.

Spencer's eyes are open, but he's not moving. Curt tries to move himself closer, but his hand touches skin and he drops himself. His eyes fix on a bloody hand coming from the back of the car. He frantically tries to move away, to break open his door, but that's when the singing starts.

_ "Sometimes, you have to decide if you're good, or evil." _

Curt snaps his head around to look through the broken windshield. Hank takes slow steps closer, gun in hand. Curt looks back to the bodies in his car, just to see that they've moved. Neither of them are in the car.

_ "Sometimes, you can't pick a side and you don't know if you're strong enough. Or wise enough." _

A hand tears through the driver side door and rips Curt out of the car by his hair. He looks up into Spencer's eyes, which are glowing a faint blue in the light. A similar color pours from his nose. His lips move along in perfect harmony with Hank's.

"S-Spencer?"

_ "Are you our hero, Curtis?" _ Spencer grins.

"No, I'm not. Sorry, buddy." Curt quickly wraps his arm and leg around Spencer's, releasing his hair from the death grip as well as spinning Spencer's body around to use as a shield.

Right as he turns, a shot goes off and Spencer's head is thrown into his own, the body going limp once more. Hank is grinning. It's only now that Curt notices the mess on Hank's neck. Red and blue mixes into a disgusting purple that drips from the deep gash just under his chin. Curt drops the body and takes a step backward.

An arm wraps around Curt's neck, but he quickly grabs it and pulls the person forward and over him. Graham lands on Spencer's body with a loud thud. Hank's singing rings in his ears and the gun is once again pointed at him. He starts sprinting for the trees, gunshots and the taunting sound of harmonizing following after.


	10. Escape Is What I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a *raven sucks. Sometimes literally.

_Owen had been with British Intelligence for a few days, but only just stood in front of a mirror. He couldn't take his eyes off it. The face looking back at him wasn't his, but one he saw before in the weapons facility. The owner of this face was dead. He let out a shuttered breath and stumbled to his new bed. They'd given him a room. He no longer wanted it._

_**Was he not Owen, then? Was he the fake? The weak link, the incompetent fool, the scape goat?** He looked down at his shaky hands. **What if MI6 found out? Surely he'd be killed for this, right?**_

_He was torn from his thoughts quite quickly by a friend – or, at least, he thought they were friends – entering and leading him off. He had more training to do, lessons to pretend to relearn, information to collect. He had to betray these people. That was his job, betray and run away._

_The Russian's coming to "collect" him were a bit late. Late enough for him to get actual treatment for his wounds, to realize he was wearing a mask to hide his identity. Keeping the plaster on his face that long was a struggle, but worth it to get his legs working again. When the lights finally did go out, he was relieved. This was his chance to escape both the MI6 and the KGB. Just go out the doors and run._

_But running wasn't an option. Upon leaving, he was beat down, drugged, and dragged back to Russia. As soon as he was awake, a familiar face sat on the edge of his bed, watching him. Thanks to his time with British Intelligence, he now recognized this man as Russian Dignitary, Vladimir Poopin. He could tell that the plaster disguising him had been removed from his face. Poopin didn't look happy, but then again, when did he ever?_

_It didn't take long before the injured man's suspicions were proved. His name was Oleg Kozlov, not Owen Carvour, and he was a Russian spy. More than that, though, the world thought that he was dead, and Owen had lived. The KGB planned to use this to their advantage, Poopin explained._

_After the wonderful job he did in Britain, he was to be sent to Australia to get information from one Kim Ronin. He was told that she would be keeping a briefcase and that an assassin, the "Deadliest" Man Alive, would be sent to grab it. All he needed to do was make sure that the DMA didn't get the briefcase, and that he himself at least looked through the contents, if not just stealing it._

_It was a simple enough task, one that he knew he'd be killed for failing, so he was dressed up and shipped off. The gathering he was at was in celebration of the Bega Bomber being sent to jail for good. It seemed that there was something corrupt happening there, though, considering that Kim had such valuable information on her at such an open party._

_That wasn't his business, though. He scanned the room, looking for the description he was given: short, curly brown hair, dark brown eyes. The only thing about this mission that worried him was the sexual implications of it. Seducing a government official to steal information._

_It didn't take long for him to find a perfect match for his target, except for one thing. That person was male. He was sure he was after a woman, after all her name was Kim. It had to be a woman. He kept watching, until finally he found himself standing at the bar next to the man._

_"Is this seat taken?" he smiled politely, forcing an Australian accent out. He felt his heart drop at the sight of a briefcase sitting in the smaller man's lap._

_"Oh, no! Please, sit." Their voice was nasally, and they almost sounded as if they had a lisp. Oleg watched their eyes drift to the braces on his legs. "Have you been up long?"_

_"No, no. I only arrived a few moments ago." Dear lord, he hated speaking English. "I'm Jude, Jude Hamblin, it's nice to meet you._

_"Oh?" They shook hands. "I haven't heard of you. I'm Kim."_

_Oleg cleared his throat, internally cussing. He thought he was dealing with a woman, not a man. **Especially not one so** -_

_"Are you alright? You seem tired." Kim gestured to the chair next to him, "sit."_

_"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Mr. Ronin, right? I'm just in for tonight." He was relieved to finally sit down. His legs were killing him. The leg and back braces helped with the pressure, but not the ache. "I haven't had the pleasure of being in this area too often."_

_"I see! Well, it's quite a nice place. I hope you'll enjoy today."_

_"I believe I've just found a good reason to enjoy it, sir." He smirked, taking Kim's blushing as a good sign._

_It didn't take long – just a bit of flirting, brushing hands, and suggestive glances – and he was being led off to a back room. His heart was racing, not that he disliked it, the adrenaline was good. He'd need it for what was coming next._

_Kim was surprisingly dominant, immediately pushing their lips together upon closing the door. He made quick work of Oleg's coat, then shirt, obviously experienced where the Russian was not. Some part of Kozlov enjoyed this, but he quickly pushed it down. This was just business._

_Not that it mattered very long. The door was soon opened, and a tall, strong man walked in. The stranger's blue eyes were glazed over like freshly cut glass, his body tense. Oleg stepped in front of Kim, trying to prepare himself for what would come next. He wasn't in the best shape to fight, but he'd do it if necessary._

_"Am I interrupting something?" Blue Eyes spoke with a Cockney accent._

_"Indeed you are. Leave."_

_"I'm afraid I can't do that, mate."_

_Oleg glared, trying to puff himself up, make himself frightening. "I know exactly what you're here for."_

_"Then you know why I can't leave just yet."_

_"You're not getting it."_

_"Oh really?" he chuckled, stepping closer. "And what are you gonna d-"_

_Oleg swung his fist right into the man's nose. The Cockney fell backwards, but the hits didn't stop. A swing of the metal piece of his leg brace directly into the downed man's head caused both to cry out in pain, and Oleg stumbled backwards, slightly hunched over._

_The Russian started to slip back into his natural accent. "Deadliest Man, right? You lost that pretty easy."_

_The dirty blonde stared up, his eyes now alive and filled with fear. He whimpered softly and pressed his head to the floor, as if running more on muscle memory than instinct or thought. Oleg felt Kim gaping at him from behind._

_He ignored them both and grabbed the briefcase. There was no use in pretending now, especially since Kim didn't look like he was about to object. Oleg glanced once again to the trembling heap on the floor._

_Something in him felt guilty. He knew that wasn't normal fear, **no, that was terror.** The kind you have beaten into you. He hesitates slightly before gesturing to the man._

_"What's your name?"_

_Frightened eyes looked into his._

_"E-Edmund."_

_"Edmund," he repeated, forcing himself to the door. "Good luck, Edmund. Perhaps, I'll see you again."_

_And with that, he exited, leaving Edmund and Kim alone and frightened, briefcase in hand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need everyone to know that Kim Ronin is Nick Lang.
> 
> *raven - a spy who sleeps with important figures to gain information.


End file.
